


Ding Dong Merrily on High

by AnnaofAza



Category: Supernatural
Genre: (more the latter than the former), (sort of), Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Canonical Character Death, Detective Dean, Detective Sam, Drug Use, Fluff and Angst, Hell-Induced Trauma, Hurt/Comfort, Ice Skating, M/M, Minor Character Death, Secret/Special Agent Castiel, Secret/Special Agent Uriel, Spies & Secret Agents, dark and angsty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-04
Updated: 2015-01-04
Packaged: 2018-03-05 07:09:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3110678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnaofAza/pseuds/AnnaofAza
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Castiel suggests ice skating, Dean thought it was another one of the agent's post-Operation Perdition therapies, but it's much, much more than that in many ways.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ding Dong Merrily on High

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Theconsultingdetective](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Theconsultingdetective/gifts).



> A belated happy holidays to everyone, particularly Theconsultingdetective, the poor sap who got stuck with my specific prompt, and the folks who were behind the 2014 Dean/Cas Secret Santa Exchange! You guys are amazing in many ways, and to Theconsultingdetective, I hope you like it!

Dean held his breath. This was it, the moment of truth. Could he succeed where others have failed? He leaned forward on the edge of his seat, fingers nervously tapping the surface of the rickety table. Beside him, Jo bit her lip. She made eye contact with Sam from across the room, and Dean’s younger brother nodded firmly. In the back, the air conditioner hummed and clattered, but otherwise, it was completely silent.

“Winchester, Harvelle, are you both ready?”

“Ready,” the detectives declared. Jo glanced at Dean one last time, and he held her gaze steadily, not daring to blink.

“Now!”

With a heaving gasp, Dean opened his mouth and attacked the pie tin sitting in front of him, blueberries coating his chin and upper lip. Beside him, Jo punched through the thin, flaky crust with her nose and lapped up the filling, making distinct slurping noises. As Dean swallowed so quickly that he almost choked, he heard the whoops of the squad cheering on their respective contestants. Ruby steadily collected rolled-up dollar bills with a winning smile, and Dean fought the urge to glare at her. She reminded him of former PI Talbot, but the difference was that Ruby—if that even was her real name—was both a suspected lackey of Lilith _and_ had her claws in his little brother...

“Come on, Winchester! You’re slowing down!”

“Go kick his ass, Harvelle!”

Dean focused, redoubling his efforts. Sam counted down the seconds slowly, eyes locked on his wristwatch, and the small crowd’s roars intensified as the shrill beeping of the alarm went off. Almost dazedly, Dean raised his head, and waited for the verdict with crossed fingers.

“And the winner is—the one and only…Detective Dean Winchester!”

“Yes!” Dean leapt up from his seat, punching the air. Jo slammed down a fist on the table, briefly cursing, as the squad swarmed about Ruby, tossing money at her as if she were a hooker. She grinned, winking when Dean’s gaze briefly fell on her, and turned to collect another wad of cash. Sam then clapped him on the back, distracting Dean, and grinned widely at him.

Jo tried to back out the door, armed with her nearly empty pin tin, but laughing, Dean caught her by the shoulders and spun her around.

“You know what’s coming, Harvelle!” Dean sang, and Jo braced herself as her own pie made contact with her face. Everyone in the room howled wildly, then began to dissolve into pitches of laughter when Jo smoothly wiped blueberries smeared from across her nose to soundly smack Dean in the ear. Dean laughed, ducking his head, and launched himself at his partner, and everyone began cheering again as they wrestled for dominance. Dean’s hip hit the table, and it landed on the floor with a resounding crash—

“What the _hell_ is going on here?”

“Agent Uriel!” Dean broke out one of his disarming grins, and if the man didn’t already fantasize about tossing him back into Perdition, it would have worked. Beside him, his partner, Agent Castiel Novak, stared at the resulting chaos: bright blue and purple filling smearing the table and gritty tiled floor, the mute squad frozen in the act of handing green bills to Ruby, Jo wiping at the mess that was slipping down her chin, and Sam in mid fist pump.

“ _Winchester._ ” Uriel always said his name as if it physically pained him to do so, rolling it around on his tongue and waiting for the chance to spit it out. The agent strode right into his personal space, eyes lingering on each and every person in the room. Even Ruby looked at him warily, back pressed to the wall, bills crumpled in her fists. “What exactly is this...disaster?”

“It was a simple pie-eating contest,” Dean said, meeting the other man’s eyes defiantly. “It got a bit rowdy, that’s all.”

“I see.” Uriel turned to scan the area once again. Dean was certain he knew everyone, right down to their name, age, and blood type. The look on the agent’s face could curdle milk. “Detective Winchester, have you finished all of your work? Or do you simply not have enough to do, and this is why you’re resorting to…childish contests such as this?” Uriel paused, making a show of crossing his arms.

“No.” Normally, Dean would add a _sir_ while addressing a superior, but calling Uriel _sir_ left a bad taste in his mouth, and Dean was one-hundred percent certain that the man was not worthy of his respect. “It was…it was just having a laugh, you know? We needed something after…Anna.”

Beside Uriel, Castiel tensed. Dean did his best not to look at him, remembering Anna’s last, tender kiss before bullets nearly brought the decrepit shed down around them. _They’re not like me or you or your squad, Dean. They’re built to kill, they’re built to follow orders without question, and they’re built to believe everything that’s fed to them. I’d rather die than go back there—_

Uriel’s lips twisted in disproval. _“Anna_ ,” he said disdainfully, “is none of your concern. Not anymore. We were wrong, I see, to put the case in your hands, so soon after all of your botched missions we so generously assigned you.”

The agent began ticking off the incidents off his fingers with the same memory as an angry mother: “There were times where you would have done better in listening to us that you somehow managed to succeed: the Witnesses, the Metamorphosis, and the Fever, but there was _also_ Samhain, then Anael Milton, then the _incident_ with that imposter Nick Monroe–“

Dean’s cheeks flushed dark red, and Sam glanced him underneath his eyelids with a guilty wring of his hands. They both preferred not think of that monster, nor the things they said to each other, and Uriel either didn’t notice or care.

Sam cleared his throat. “Er…Agents. Do we---do we have another case?”

“ _Samuel,_ ” Uriel sneered, turning on his heel and prodding a finger into Sam’s chest. “Aren’t you supposed to be on probation?”

“It’s up,” Sam almost breathed, but he stood his ground. “Captain Singer invited me back, sir, and Agent Novak approved the motion.”

“Excluding Samuel would not help bring a halt to Lilith and the Seals,” Castiel spoke up, a faint challenge in his tone. “Especially after our loss of Detective Barnes.”

An ugly wrench turned in Dean’s stomach. Pamela had been witty and quick on the draw, but at the last possible second, _he_ succeeded and killed her, their friend who had first dared to challenge the Angels, help a runaway convict, and put her life on the line to help them—and lost it for her troubles.

“An unfortunate blow, yes,” Uriel muttered, but his heart didn’t seem into it, as if Pamela had been a computer or—or—a pair of jeans that were old and broken and not worth talking about any longer, because a brand new replacement was already being shipped. “And to get back to the matters at hand, we _do_ have a mission, but I feel that the Angels can handle this in lieu of your…emotional outbursts. Everyone, clean this all up. I expect it to be spotless.”

* * *

  _No! I don’t deserve this, I told you I don’t—_

“Dean.” Jo laid a hand on his shoulder. “Come on, Dean, you need to go home.”

“I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not. Listen to me and go home. Get some rest or go to the Roadhouse; I’ll text Mom and she if she’ll give you something on the house.”

“Jo—“

“I’m not saying this as a fellow detective; I’m saying this as a friend. Please, Dean, you’re not well.”

“The funeral—“

“Is two days away, and I submitted the form for you.” Jo moved her hands up to gently grasp both of his shoulders. “Do you need me to drive you home? Where’s Sam?”

“With Ruby.” Dean suddenly felt very tired. “I’ll be fine. I’ll just—go home. Tell your mom that I said hi.”

With a short pat on his friend’s shoulder, he exited the room, trying to dig out his car keys with shaky fingers. His throat constricted every time he glanced at something that reminded him of Pamela—tarot cards left on her desk, a picture of her in the halls with a golden plaque, a scuff on Uriel’s office door where she’d kicked it in after he told her, quite pointedly, that she might have to take a leave of absence due to the acid being thrown in her eyes…

Her eyes had been hidden by her sunglasses when she died, and as she lay gasping in Sam’s arms, her last words were filled with fear and pain and anger.

She’d cursed them both, but Dean especially felt the taint in his soul, the taint of blame laid at his feet by another person who deserved to be saved over him.

* * *

“Winchester. Glad to see you, but I couldn’t help notice that the clutter on your desk reflects the clutter in your head.”

Dean gritted his teeth. The man was just like Dolores Umbridge, strolling in at the exact wrong time and reminding everyone that their unit was under constant supervision by the fancy higher-ups, whose job seemed to be only pointing fingers left and right. Didn’t they capture the Yellow-Eyed Man and bring him to justice? Or temporarily put the notorious Meg Masters behind jars? No, that didn’t seem to matter, because after a string of horrendously botched missions that resulted in Operation Perdition, the Angels—and wasn’t that just a stunningly pretentious name?—swooped in and started nosing around like she-wolves in heat.

“I just wanted to check in to see if my leave was—“

“Permission not granted,” Uriel said, sliding the letter across the desk. Castiel was behind him, sympathy in his eyes as something in Dean’s chest caved in.

“What? But—was it the paperwork—“

“No.” Uriel folded his hands in a steeple position one of Dean’s old principals used to do. He never liked that man, either… “As you know, Christmas is coming up.”

_And what a shitty thing it is, Pamela dying just before Christmas…_

“We have a job for you,” Castiel said, not unkindly. “It’s about Alastair—“

Bile rose in his throat, and if Dean could move, he’d be scrambling for the door. “No.”

“You haven’t heard the—“

“I don’t want to.” Dean swallowed, locking eyes with the agent. “You know…what Alastair did, what I—I did with him. I can’t. I—won’t go. Send someone else.”

Uriel looked on the verge of rising from his desk. “You dare—“

“Uriel, enough.” In one stride, Castiel crossed the room and gently placed his hand on Dean’s shoulder, and the touch sent zipping electricity through his body. Dean shivered slightly, as Castiel appraised him, eyes flitting to meet his. “Dean has been through enough this week.”

“He’s the only one who _knows_ Alastair. You know it, all the Angels know it. Are you questioning the superiors on this?”

Castiel seemed to hesitate, and Dean held his breath.

“Uriel, I’m simply pointing that this is…unwise. You saw him after Operation Perdition, and all of these new situations seem…taxing to his mental health. I’m not questioning anyone’s authority on this, but—”

“It seems like you are.”

Uriel’s hand landed on the landline on his desk, and he began pushing buttons, dialing a number Dean didn’t recognize. He didn’t look up at them while he did this, but Castiel tensed as Uriel muttered something that sounded like code. The agent nodded once, then finally, after a long period of silence, handed the phone to Castiel, who took it like handling a live rattlesnake.

“Winchester, dismissed,” Uriel said shortly. “Agent Novak and I are going to have a _talk._ ”

* * *

_Alastair was laughing._

_“You did well tonight, Dean-o. Nice touch there, hanging him outside the window.”_

_“Thought Lilith deserved a bit of a scare.” Dean found it strangely easy to grin. Blood stuck to his forehead like sweat, and his veins felt as if he’d been injected with mercury. He could tell himself that he was just keeping his cover, but the sheer thrill of taking out those no good sons of bitches…there was nothing like it. Handcuffing and tackling was all well and good, but stopping them permanently, poetically, gave him an immense satisfaction._

_But he was doing his job—he was. That night, Alastair had taken him out to burn down two supply houses that were, according to intelligence, crack dens. Dean’d taken out over twenty corrupted souls by himself and dragged their bodies to burn or hang outside more windows, their crimes carved into their bellies. _

_Bela’s had been THIEF, and the way she swung from the lamppost made her seem like a little girl’s rag doll, all tiny and helpless. Her eyes were still wide in surprise, her wrists scraped red from the rope Alastair’s goons bound her with. He’d been the one who screamed, “Surrender! Surrender!” before she could get downed by a bullet._

_He could clearly remember Alastair handing him the gun with a deft grin, a threat implicit in his eyes. Before his mind caught up to what he was doing, Dean had closed his fingers around the weapon, fingers shaking. For the first time he’d ever known her, Bela’s face clearly showed fear._

_Alastair had grinned all the wider. “You’re on our side, aren’t you, Winchester? You weren’t lying to me?”_

_Dean had wordlessly nodded, and shot her in the heart._

With a strangled whimper, Dean woke up.

He found himself recalling the night he fell asleep at his desk, sweat-soaked to the skin, and Castiel gently shaking him by the shoulder. As the clock ticked from one AM to three, Castiel told Dean to close his eyes, describing pieces of his childhood memories. One Dean could picture particularly well was of fishing on a dock at a lake. Like meditation, he could feel the comfort, the warm breeze on his face, and the gentle sway of water beneath the wooden boards.

Castiel did things like this. He kept insisting that, given the events of the failed Operation Perdition, Dean should consult a therapist, try a certain herbal tea or a prescribed brand of medication, or simply take a short break. Dean had refused all options, and since he couldn’t talk about what he did, he’d thrown himself into work so much that he usually never made it back home. Castiel had been there at the end of each mission with a cup of hot chocolate and advice, which Dean ignored, and a steady shake of his shoulder when the memories swarmed his head.

Tonight, however, it wasn’t Castiel who had awakened him, but a startling burst of electric guitar. Blindingly fumbling for his phone, Dean pressed the speaker button and mumbled a short _Sam?_

“Dean.”

Dean quickly lowered the volume and pressed the device close to his ear. “ _Anna?_ Are you—how—“

“They let me off under close supervision, but I’ve managed to lose my guards.”

“The phone—“

Anna laughed in response. “It’s disposable, and I still know some tricks. They won’t know that I called you.”

Dean heaved a sigh of relief. “Are you okay?” he asked.

“As well as a renegade could be. How’s Cas?”

“Cas? He’s…the same, I guess. Why?”

“I’ve been talking to him, too.”

“What? Anna, he can report you—“

“It may not seem like it, but he’s no Uriel. He doubts.” Something on Anna’s side of the line crackled, and she quickly whispered, “I got to go; I’m on a lead—do _not_ try to contact me. Uriel’s the head of my manhunt, so be careful.”

* * *

_Anna. Anna had called him._

He’d thought the worst, but the woman was smart. But if Castiel knew—could he even talk about this with him? Was Castiel really a good guy, or did Anna need to work on him some more? _Should_ he even mention Anna? When Dean did, earlier that week, Castiel had given him that _look_ —of what? Hurt? Confusion?

Lost in his recollections, Dean collided with something hard, nearly falling on his ass, but hands, gentle but firm and familiar, caught him by the arms. “Dean,” the voice said, concerned. “Are you all right?”

“Yeah.” Dean cleared his throat. “I’m fine, Cas.”

 _Cas._ When did he start calling him that?

“The funeral…how did it go?”

“I—“ Dean swallowed. “As well as it should have gone, I guess. Thanks for…I don’t know, pulling some strings.”

“You deserved to go. I actually was on my way to your desk. I needed to speak with you.”

Dean abruptly jerked away from Castiel’s grip. “About Alastair? Because I told you guys—“

“It’s not about Alastair,” the other man interrupted. “My superiors worked it out.”

“Okay, great.” Dean looked to him for some kind of response, but Castiel kept standing there. Did he need something? “Uh…see you around?”

“I actually…” Castiel hesitated. “As you know, this is my first time down in this district, and I heard—I heard that the locals do many things during the holiday season, such as lighting a Christmas tree, singing carols, the like…”

Dean nodded. Where was he going with this?

“I—I don’t have anyone to spend the holiday with. My family and I are separated. So, I was thinking…” Castiel took a deep breath. “There’s a local ice rink nearby, and I haven’t—“

“Been there? Dude, you should. Taught Sammy—Sam—right there, and it’s awesome. Not too expensive—it’s been a while...”

“That’s not I what I meant, but I haven’t been there either, actually. It’s just…I’ve never—ah, ice skated before.”

No way. The guy had to be around…late thirties, early forties? And he had never— _no way._ It was almost sad to think about. “Ever?”

“I haven’t had the opportunity, but a few of my siblings and I used to rollerblade and play some street hockey before we were all sent to boarding school.” Before Dean could say something like _so the pole jammed up your ass wasn’t something you were born with?,_ Castiel asked him, “I assume you’ve been…?”

Faint trickles of his mom’s gentle hands on his sides as he slowly put one foot in front of the other and his dad, behind them, smiling in a way that died during the fire came to mind. His parents stirring freshly brewed hot chocolate with a candy cane. His mom counting a slow and steady rhythm as they all skated together. His dad holding his hand and coaxing him to take his first step onto the ice…it had been so long ago, long before even Sammy, that Dean was surprised he even remembered it at all.

“…I used to, I guess.” Dean said, before quickly adding, “If you keep falling flat on your ass, I guess I can give you some tips.”

“Really?” Castiel’s eyes were amused. “You can?”

“Uh, yeah. I did. I can.” He’d taken a few girls out if there was an ice rink in the many towns Dad had moved them to, and before that, taught Sammy how to skate to impress some school friends. Castiel had never set foot on ice, so—well, he’d be ahead of the game.

“Is it fun? Once you get past the falling?”

Dean laughed, pretending to recall. It was all very vague, but he _could_ remember getting a lot of compliments. It was a good date idea—a cheap excuse to hold someone’s hand or their waist, and it felt nice, helping people out and seeing a smile on their face when they managed to stand without falling…

_Dean, honey, you’re doing so well. You glide on the ice better than your daddy the first time I took him._

_Aw, Dean, that ain’t true. She fell way more than I did._

_Don’t listen to him, Dean; he’s just being cranky. You cold yet? No? You want to keep going? My little angel..._

He quickly responded before the memory could choke him: “Yeah, it’s pretty fun. I have…good memories of it.”

“I’m glad to hear that.” Castiel actually sounded sincere, but it sounded _weird._ Was this a new therapy method he was trying to pull on Dean? Because if so, this was the hokiest thing yet.

The thing was, Castiel looked _nervous_ , twiddling with the ends of the ties that held his weird Constantine trenchcoat closed. Dean felt like waving a hand in front of the agent and saying “Earth to Cas…?” or maybe fake a phone call to get out this situation.

He did neither. He simply stood there, as Castiel seemed to collect himself, then finally said, “I’m thinking about going this weekend. It’s half price, with free hot chocolate—well, I thought—we could go…together.”

That was…unexpected. “Oh.”

Castiel started talking very quickly, a verbal back out the door. “I mean, you don’t have to—you may consider it rather unprofessional of me to assume—I assume you have your own plans—and I shouldn’t impose on you—because if you and Sam are doing something—“

“Sam has a date with Ruby,” Dean spat, startled by the venom in his voice before toning it down, more gently: “I’m free.”

The agent blinked. “Oh. Does this mean…you—“

“Yes. Yes, I’d like to go.” Dean nodded and, to his surprise, smiled. “I’d like that.”

“Oh. Good.” Castiel smiled back.

They smiled at each other, quite stupidly, for a long while—so long that Dean coughed and muttered a “Uh, meet you there, I suppose?”

“Of course, yes.” Castiel seemed fairly reluctant to leave, but he still stood there. Dean was thinking _he_ should maybe move when Castiel abruptly turned on his heel and practically started to dash away.

Before he actually got to the end of the hallway, Castiel suddenly confessed, “I tried to stop Uriel from interrupting your contest.”

All Dean could reply with a bewildered “Huh” as he watched the agent head back to his office.

Who knew? Sometimes, people could really surprise you…

* * *

“So, you and Cas prepared for your date?”

Dean choked on his lunch. On the other end of the line, he could hear his younger brother failing to suppress snickers at his expense. If Dean was featured in an article titled “Detective Winchester: Veteran of the Demon Wars, Defeater of the Yellow-Eyed Man, and Survivor of Operation Perdition, Dies by Sandwich,” he’d rise from his grave and seek vengeance. It took two swigs of beer and a short self-whack on the back to get his lungs cleared. “It is _not_ a date,” he protested.

“Oh, really? You and Cas, alone—“

“With hundreds of people—“

“In an ice skating rink—“

“Together, and as said, _alone_ —“

“Whoa, whoa. Sam, no.” Dean raised his hand in a _stop_ motion, even though his brother wouldn’t be able to see it. “Oh, no. That’s not going to happen. I still—“

“What, don’t trust him?”

“I—“ He cut himself off before he could mention Anna. Who knew if this call was secure? Anna hadn’t called him back, and Dan didn’t know whether to take it as a good or bad sign. “I’m…I trust him more than Uriel.”

Sam snorted. “That’s not exactly a huge vote of confidence, Dean.”

“Neither is you going on a date with _Ruby._ Come on, Sam, she’s—“

“ _Ruby_ is helping me.”

“With what? Cas told me about the drugs, Sam. What’s she giving you?”

“ _Cas_? Damn, Dean, you’re like a politician. _I trust Cas. No, never mind. Wait, I kind of do. Maybe. Well, no—“_

Dean pinched the bridge of his nose and reminded himself to count to ten, before firmly saying, “Sam, I’m worried about you.”

His brother only sighed impatiently. “Don’t worry about me, Dean. Worry about yourself.”

And with that, Sam hung up.

* * *

 

“We don’t have the hockey skates in your size,” the employee said apologetically. “You okay with figures?”

“Um, sure, I don’t care,” Dean answered with a short shrug, and the man’s eyes flitted from him to Castiel, then nodded, as if confirming something. Dean was wondering if he made some sort of unspoken social error. The hockey blades didn’t have that weird spike at the front of the blade—it looked like a tripping accident waiting to happen—and they looked a touch more sturdy, with buckles that snapped over the front. The beaten, brown figure skates had a few rust spots dotting the blades, and the raggedy ties seemed meticulous to get right—lots of criss-crossing and tucking in the loose ends.

They were uncomfortable, Dean decided, as he stood up from the heavily scratched, plastic blue bench for the first time. That was why the guy said that.

Castiel, beside him, was patiently weaving the laces expertly back and forth. Dean finished stuffing his shoes in the nearby locker and watched, racking his brain to think of idle small talk, but nothing seemed to come to mind. They were close enough to discuss dangerous missions, but not enough, strangely, to ask about favorite foods or respective hobbies. And what _did_ Castiel do for fun, if at all? It was hard to imagine the agent, say, collecting stamps or listening to classic rock, but Dean was sure that Castiel didn’t just stand in the corner and stare into space in his free time. Maybe.

Dean knew about Castiel’s few memories from their late-night quasi-meditation sessions, but they were so scant and vague that Dean couldn’t paint a picture of who Castiel was before he joined the Angels. In contrast, Castiel knew everything about him that was on file—his name, his age, his birthdate, even where he went to high school—and more, something that made the back of Dean’s head prickle. Even if Sam knew the outline—that he tried his best to keep up his cover without killing anyone, that he finally had to kill someone Dean refused to name, that Dean went out and did it when it was no longer necessary to fool Alastair— _Castiel_ saw him in the act, and knocked him over the head so he could save him.

He just didn’t understand it.

“Dean?”

Dean startled at the metallic slam of the locker door beside him. Castiel was looking at him in concern, head tilted.

“Dean, are you all right?”

“Fine.” Dean immediately flashed him a sheepish grin. “I—uh, spaced out for a moment there. Not used to not being…out.”

“It’s been a while, hasn’t it?” Castiel inquired, almost kindly.

Dean looked at the crowd: parents leading children by the hand with anxious clucks, teenagers giggling as they playfully shoved each other on their way to the rink, and employees sighing with boredom, wistfully gazing at the hordes of people smiling, some of them sipping hot chocolate between their cold-numbed fingers with contented little sighs.

“It has,” he agreed.

Castiel smiled. “Ready to teach me?”

Dean smirked back. “Just be warned, I might be a touch rusty, but there’s nothing I can’t handle.”

After all, how hard could skating be? It was probably like riding a bike.

* * *

 It was not like riding a bike.

Castiel took to ice skating like a duck to water. Despite the low quality blades, he skated in graceful, smooth strokes that made decisive cuts into the ice.

In contrast, the first time Dean stepped into the rink, he slipped backwards, and it was only because of his quick reflexes that he managed to prevent his head from making contact with the boards. His ass stung, and with a rather undignified crawl forward, he got to his feet and tripped over the toe pick, slamming his palms into the person in front of him to keep from falling. The woman turned around, glared at him, and silently jerked away from him.

Dean tried next to take another step, but he flailed, like some idiot stepping on a banana peel, doing a Michael Jackson-style moonwalk before he fell again on his ass. When he tried to stand up by bracing his heels against the ice, Dean crashed again, wincing at the cold he could feel through his jacket and jeans. He ended up rolling on his knees and using the wall to prop himself up, using it as a crutch of some sorts to propel himself forward to try to follow Castiel, who was already halfway across the rink.

Every time he took a step, his body swayed, and Dean felt like a newborn colt, trying to navigate with his floppy legs. _Kids_ were skating better than him, taking tiny steps that occasionally bordered on gliding, but when Dean tried to do just that, he tripped on the stupid toe pick and nearly fell into a small crowd of alarmed teenagers.

“Are you all right?”

If it wasn’t so cold, Dean’s cheeks would have flushed bright pink. Ignoring Castiel’s presence behind him, he took another wobbly step forward. “I just haven’t done this in years,” Dean muttered defensively. “Should pick it up. Go on ahead.”

Castiel gave him a dubious glance. “I will not abandon you, Dean. Perhaps you would want to hold onto the wall for support.”

“It’s a bit crowded, Cas.” Nearly half of the people were leaning against the boards that followed the curves of the rink, gloved hands clutching the edge of the wall and the glass.

“You can obtain one of those.”

Dean looked in the direction where Castiel was pointing, and blanched. Giggly kids— _toddlers,_ more like it—were pushing a traffic cone-orange plastic seal, gripping the upturned tail with fingers encased in striped wooly gloves. Parents followed them in slow, mincing steps, smiling and taking photos with their phones.

“No way,” Dean immediately said.

“Dean, since you object to using the wall—“

“I don’t _object_ ; there’s hardly any room—“

“You keep falling, Dean.”

“And I keep getting back up. I’ll be fine.”

Castiel took him by the arm.

“Uh,” Dean said.

“This seems to work, no?” Castiel asked obliviously, moving half the speed he originally had skated. Dean looked around for judgmental eyes, already on defense, but no one seemed to care. Everyone else was wrapped in a little bubble of their own amusement, and when Dean tried to see if he knew anyone from town, he pitched to the side. Startled, Castiel was dragged down by the sudden weight, and they ended up with a painful thump, sprawled on the ice. Dean, trying to right himself, ended up pushing himself up with a hand on Castiel’s stomach. Embarrassed, he jerked it away, but Castiel didn’t seem to notice—he simply got up, wiped at the icy powder that coated part of his right side, and offered Dean a hand.

Dean tried to pull himself up by gripping Castiel’s wrist with both hands, but since Dean was weighed a bit more than Castiel, he almost dragged the other man down again. Castiel dangerously lurched forward, then seeming to mentally roll his eyes, hauled him up by practically lifting him by the waist. Dean squirmed, but then Castiel wrapped an arm around his shoulder and back, and Dean automatically did the same without thinking.

“More support this way, I think. You’re much...heavier than I thought.” Castiel gripped his arm when Dean leaned too far back, steadying him, then tried to coax him to lean a bit more forward with a gentle nudge.

“Uh…” Dean wasn’t sure whether to take that as a compliment or not—he was actually leaning towards the latter—and settled with a response of “thanks?”

“I’m assuming rollerblading has helped aid me,” Castiel continued, tone almost apologetic, jerking when Dean leaned forward again. “Oh! Try holding your other arm up for balance; I learned from one of my brothers that it’s helpful to hold out your arms and not look down so much.”

Dean raised his chin, trying to raise both arms—Castiel dropped the one he was holding, something that Dean had to tell himself not to feel disappointed over--but the blades seemed to shift under his feet and almost slip. Castiel’s hand shot out to grab his left shoulder, but they both fell again.

“Oh my—are you okay?”

“Fine, Cas,” Dean gasped. “Just…you’re—“

“I apologize.”

“Barely felt the impact, though. All good?”

“Ah, yes. You broke the fall.”

Castiel hauled him up again, and Dean laid a hand on his shoulder to anchor himself.

For a moment, Dean just stared. Castiel’s hair was mussed from the exuberant drop, and Dean felt the urge to smooth it out.

Trying to ignore the strange, upward increase of his heart, Dean quickly asked, “So, um, you played street hockey?”

“I did.”

Dean waited for an extended response, silently counting to ten in his head. When Castiel didn’t add anything else, Dean probed, “Were you good?”

“My team often won,” Castiel said, putting his right foot down on the ground, Dean shuffling clumsily beside him. “Inias, Hester, Balthazar…Anna.”

There was a pause.

_“Anna?”_

Castiel sighed wearily. “Yes. Anna.”

Dean’s mouth formed several unfinished sentences before settling on: “You tried to _kill_ her.”

He must have said that louder than he thought, because a gaggle of friends skating near them all turned their faces towards the sound and gaped, mouth wide.

“Why don’t we take a break?” Castiel suggested, leaving him to the boxed area where the hockey players normally sat. They braced themselves on the wall by leaning their elbows on the edge.

Castiel then took his skate in hand and ran an ungloved finger along the edge of the blade. “They appear to be unsharpened.”

“Don’t distract me, Cas. What do you mean?”

The other man lifted his own skate and repeated the motion up and down the blade. “See? It feels a bit sharper, perhaps a bit smoother, almost…thinner?”

“I’m not talking about the fucking blade, Cas. Why did you—you hunt your own _sister_ down like a dog? What, did she play too many pranks on you as a kid?”

“She was a _traitor,_ Dean. And please don’t swear, there are children here.”

“You’re evading. Come _on_ , Cas. She said—“

Dean immediately bit back his next words. He wouldn’t give away Anna, not so carelessly. Choosing what he was about to say very carefully, Dean took a deep breath. “She told me before that you had doubts, too. You once told me you weren’t some tool, Cas.”

“I’m not.” With that, the agent started skating away.

“Hey!” With a miraculous slide forward without cracking his forehead on the ice, Dean managed to grab the other man’s shoulder. “Don’t you dare walk away from you, you bastard!”

Unbelievably, Castiel tilts his head and looks almost blankly at him. “Are you angry at me?”

“Yes, I’m fucking angry at you! How can you not tell?”

“About Anna? About Pamela? Because, Dean, we succeeded—we bugged Alastair—she didn’t die in vain.”

Dean trembled. His eyes swam. “ _She shouldn’t have died at all_.” He managed to say. “I _thought_ we could get back in time, that we could save her, but she _died._ She didn’t even make it before the ambulance came. She _saved_ us and the hostages, all of us, and—“ He couldn’t breathe. “She baked us brownies after we completed a mission. She used to be a fortune-teller before she joined up. She always flirted with Sam and could charm the pants off of anyone, even the Captain. She was an amazing _person,_ not—not collateral damage, _Novak.”_

The agent flinched, but didn’t pause in his skating. “Dean—“

“And _Anna?_ She was a good person, too, and you brought her back to be _brainwashed—_ “

“You loved her.”

 _What?_ “I—I cared for her. But I didn’t—what the hell does it matter? Where did that come from, Cas?”

The other man blinked in confusion, before saying, “You kissed her—“

“It was a goodbye. And we _did_ like each other.” He still remembered the cold snap of air against his face, Anna’s hand covering his, the Impala steady and solid underneath their bodies. Anna had looked at the stars when they tumbled out of the backseat and kissed his forehead, like a benediction. _You deserved to be saved, Dean. Don’t think otherwise. In a way, you’re lucky. You have family. I don’t._ “We had a lot in common,” he continued, somewhat hazily. “Didn’t like who we were, where we were, wanted out…”

“Out of what?”

Dean turned away. “I’m surprised that you can’t figure it out.”

“Dean—“ The agent reached out and laid a hand on his left shoulder.

Dean flinched, breaking free of Castiel’s grip, and managed to clumsily wobble over to the boxed area again. Ignoring Castiel calling his name, he slipped out through an entrance to the locker room, which led him out into another crowded rink, then the bathroom. He needed to splash water on his face, throw up, or something.

The air seemed to move slower than usual in the tiny room, and Dean rubbed his hands together, wishing he’d the foresight to bring warmer gloves. If he exhales, his breath fogs up the mirrors. He looks at himself, twitching in tics, his eyes bright. It’s because he’s keyed up, that the argument took more out of him than he thought, but—

“Dean, Dean, Dean.”

Dean froze. He didn’t dare look into the mirror, fists clenching at his sides as if they held a weapon. He didn’t have one—an enormously foolish oversight—and he couldn’t see anything that would do any good.

_Come on, Winchester. Something._

“Fancy seeing you here, Dean. Missed me?”

_Can I break the mirror?_

“I know you can hear me, grasshopper. I trained you better than that.”

_What if he has a gun?_

“Stop ignoring me. It’s hurting my feelings.”

_He’ll likely just have a knife. More his style…but still—_

“I _mean_ it, Dean. Look at me.”

Dean slowly turned his head to one side so he could face the mirror, and looked at Alastair, standing behind him with his hands behind his back and a leer like the edge of a knife.

“I don’t think finding you here was a simple coincidence.” Wrong. His voice was too high, too panicked, and he needed to get out of here.

Alastair laughed, and Dean fought to keep from shuddering. His laugh was always horrible, like gravel in a blender, like a cat’s tongue, like something scraping up skin and mouthing at the muscles and veins underneath. In an unhurried motion, Alastair slipped in front of the door, not once taking his eyes off of Dean, and _looked_ at him, roaming greedy eyes up and down Dean’s body, from his brown, beat-up ice skates to the knit cap pulled tightly over his head.

“It wasn’” He watched Dean’s eyes dart quickly around the room, frantic as a fly. “I planned to be here, right down to the day and time.”

Dean’s heart lurched, but he forced himself to ask, “To do what?” _If I could just get him away from the door…_

“To see you again.”

_Get away from me._

“Not a chance in Hell. Did you misunderstand our last meeting?” _Keep him talking…_

“Where you jumped out a window to get away from me? Oh, Dean, you flatter me. I didn’t know I made you so uneasy.”

_Breathe._

“You killed Pamela.”

“With good reason. She was trying to stop me! What, did you think I’d just pat her on the back and let her go?”

_Damn it, Cas, where are you?_

“You didn’t have to kill her.”

“Ah, that takes me back to the good old days. _Is this necessary? Did you have to shoot her up like that?_ I knew you were a mole, Dean. I’m always right—but of course, I made a bet with myself.”

_Move to the right. Maybe he’ll step away to get in front of you._

Dean shifted, hardly daring to breathe. “What was it?”

“If you had potential.” At the last word, Alastair smiled again. He hadn’t moved an inch. “See, Dean, you had something in you. A spark, if you will. Full of righteous fury that could be funneled into something greater, something beautiful. You thought when you snuck right in there that you could take down Lilith herself, the whole empire. If you brought us down, maybe you could also stop your brother.”

Dean could see his breath, wavering in the air.

“Sam likes our side, but he still treats it as something shameful, something to hide, right? But you—I’ve watched you, Dean. You got a taste of Perdition, and you want more. You’re not satisfied with mind games, the politics of the office—you want justice. That’s why you joined the force, right?”

Dean remained silent, but Alastair nodded, as if confirming something.

“But that’s not enough. You want them to _pay_ for their crimes. You’re not just satisfied with locking them up in a tower far, far away. You want to make them _taste_ the pain they’ve inflicted on others. And I let you do that, Dean, All of those people? Guilty as charged. No use in lying to you. Something to keep you busy.” Alastair stepped forward. “And it caught, didn’t it? You didn’t report back to your base. That’s why we got compromised. Because you _forgot_ yourself. Isn’t that right?”

Dean lunged, stupidly, and Alastair easily caught him by both arms and swung him up against one of the sinks. His feet fumbled heavily off the ground, and Dean suddenly thought, _I still have them on._

He kicked one foot out, hard and fast, and with a loud _oomph!,_ Alastair stumbled backwards. Dean scrambled down and made a break for it, hand scrambling in his pocket to get his phone out and call Castiel. But first, he had to lead Alastair away from the crowd. The rubbery floor mats gave away slightly underneath the blades of his skates, and reaching out, his hand grasped a door that led to another locker room. Practically tossing some heavy equipment bags, stuffed with padding and pucks and hockey sticks, Dean hit the call button and grabbed another hockey stick that was leaning against the wall.

The door opened, and Dean swung.

Alastair blocked it with a knife, making a sizable nick in the wood as Dean pulled it away, using it to block Alastair’s expert swipes. He kept it close to his body, feet moving faster than Dean remembered, as the weapon slashed and snapped expertly through the air. Dean noticed something slapping against his hip, but couldn’t think about it, as he raised the hockey stick again to protect his face. The blade came down at an unlucky angle on one of his fingers, and Dean dropped what he was holding in pain. Alastair swiped at him, and without thinking, Dean blocked it with his arm. The knife shredded through the fabric and into his flesh.

Dean managed to clock him in the face before the other man, quick as a snake, dropped his knife, grabbed the makeshift weapon, and _yanked_ , using the momentum to pull Dean on top of him, then roll him over.

At the close proximity, Dean flinched at the sour salt and tang smell, with rough hands he could feel through his jacket, and panicked.

He panicked, and froze up, and that gave Alastair time to jab his knee into his stomach, once, hard—Dean heard the crack before the pain hit—and punch his fist into his jaw, his nose, and the side of his head. The world seemed to stop for a few slow and dazed moment, as Alastair put both hands around his neck. Dean struggled, gasping for breath, kicking out uselessly.

“You’re not going to die, Dean, not today, but I’m taking you back with me. It was you, didn’t you know? Your fault. If you hadn’t tried to play with the big boys and almost became king of the hill, you could have done something good. But I made you into something _better_ , something more—and you can never forget that you’re _nothing_ without—“

The door opened with a loud _thump_. Both Dean and Alastair jumped, and that gave Castiel time enough to point his gun—Dean stupidly wondered, _Was it in his locker?_ —and threaten, “Get off of him, Alastair, _now._ Hands in the air!”

Alastair slowly rose to his feet, obeying with a grimace. Dean lay on the ground, gasping for air, still feeling the fingers around his throat.

“I called for back-up. They’ll be here shortly.”

“I think we can fill up the time.”

Alastair leapt, right over Dean’s body, and Castiel fired, but missed. Before he could reload, Alastair grabbed his arm and gave it a twist, and the gun clattered to the floor, skidding under one of the benches. Castiel was left weaponless, moving into a defensive stance.

It should have been a fair fight, but Castiel, trained as he was, didn’t know Alastair’s moves. He fought dirty, clawing at flesh and kicking the other man repeatedly in the stomach. Castiel grunted, blood trickling over his bottom lip, and Alastair slammed him up against the wall, right against an empty coat hanger. As Castiel, winded as he was, slumped in Alastair’s grasp and hands encircled his throat, squeezing.  

The world seemed to rock up and down, like a ship on a stormy ocean, but Dean still noticed the gun on the ground. He grabbed for it and missed about three times, then managed to point it at Alastair’s back. He wasn’t sure if he could aim properly, but if he managed to get Alastair’s attention off of Castiel—

The click of the unloaded gun was strangely louder than he thought it would be.

Alastair paused, turning his head, and Castiel managed to kick him away from his body. The gun trembled slightly in Dean’s grip, and he stupidly kept it aimed at Alastair, who only sneered. “Go ahead, Dean. See if you hit me and not your Angel.”

Dean paused, and in that moment of hesitation, Alastair snatched something from his belt and plunged it directly into Castiel’s gut.

The dagger went in, and Castiel, with a small cry, rolled over on his side, clutching his wound. He didn’t move.

“Cas!” Dean managed to gasp. He realized, too late, the gun had slipped from his fingers, and Alastair was walking towards him, with a promise of pain twisted in his angry glare.

Before Dean blacked out, he saw his little brother break down the door, swinging a pair of skates by the laces, and the blades making contact with Alastair’s face.

* * *

 

The room around him is _white._ Completely blank and monotonous, but strangely, pain-free. _I’ve died,_ Dean thought. _Alastair killed me, and it’s all over._ He should feel angry, sad, even, but all he feels is relief. Maybe he’d regret some things later, but right now, he’s—

“Dean.”

“Cas?” he groaned, trying to reach for the voice, then winces at a twinge at his side. “Are—are we dead?”

“No, we’re both very much alive. Though, you’re gravely injured, so you shouldn’t try to sit up.”

“Aw, damn.” It took a few confused, sticky blinks, but Dean opened his eyes, seeing the agent crouched in a folding chair beside his bed, crutches leaning against one of the walls. “What—Alastair—“

“Sam took care of him.”

That’s right. He remembers seeing his brother burst in, impossibly, at the best possible moment, and--“Where's Sam?”

“He's in custody.” Dean, forgetting that he wasn’t supposed to sit up, managed to swing one leg out of bed before Castiel’s hands pushed him back down.

“What? Why?”  

“He saved our lives, Dean, but he did more than what was necessary to take Alastair down. He killed him.”

 _The skates._ “Oh.”

“He kept swinging the blades in an almost maniac way. It was brutal.” Dean wasn’t sure if he was doped up on hospital drugs, as he saw Castiel actually shudder as he spoke. “We tested his system, and he wasn't...”

“Clean.” Dean closed his eyes and let his head flop back on the pillow. “Oh, Sam.”

There was a lengthy pause, and Dean turned to see Castiel open his mouth, then close it. “What? Something else?”

“Remember when I said I called for backup?”

“Yes. Why?” “Sam wasn't the backup. I didn't know how he knew—“ Dean mentally cursed.

“Ruby. It was her, I know it. God knows why. I just—how did Alastair…”

“Uriel.”

 _Uriel?_ The guy was a dick for sure, but a traitor? Dean had imagined it, just for fun, just as a lazy excuse to get him through hours of rearranging files—complete with a heroic kick down of the door—but _really?_ “What?”

Castiel’s tone was strangely…guilty, and when Dean turned his head, the other man looked down and talked to the tiles. “When Uriel called our superiors, they threatened me.”

“With what?”

Castiel still wouldn't look at him, his next words faltering. “When I asked you to the ice rink—“

Dean laughed hollowly. It was the only way he knew how to react that didn’t require him to listen to petty apologies and excuses that always excluded him. “You bastard. It wasn't a date, after all.”

“My intentions were—they were true, Dean.” Dean was _certain_ he was at last a little delirious, because the agent’s cheeks actually flushed dark red before soberly continuing: “But Uriel found out and asked me to move it to specific time and date. I thought he had a mission arranged for me around that time.” Castiel heaved a sigh. “He told me to bring a weapon. When I think about it, his choice of words seemed suspicious, and I—I don’t know. I think I was afraid. And now, I’m _tired_ of being afraid. Anna said—“

“Anna?”

Castiel nodded. “Anna's been hacking into our system, and she—she’s been talking to me—“ Dean tried not to look as if he already knew. “And she helped me discover Uriel is working with the other side.”

A jolt of panic went through him. “What? You mean…Lilith? Alastair?”

“Lucifer.”

 _Worse. The worst._ “Oh my God. Working for that drug lord…Cas—Uriel should—We should arrest that bastard.”

“He's already dead.”

“Dead?” Dean replied, somewhat blankly, with a small, mental _huh._ He wondered, idly, if he’d have to attend his funeral. Probably not.

Castiel grimaced. “Anna killed him when I went to confront him.”

“Dude.” If Dean could have moved without being reminded that he was brutally beaten, he would have shaken his head. “You did pulled Ned Stark to Uriel’s Cersei. That was stupid.”

The agent blinked, then evidently decided to resist asking him about the reference. “Luckily, Anna was there. We hid the body.”

“God, this is so messed up. This can’t get any worse, then?”

Castiel shook his head, and Dean’s heart sank.

It wasn’t over after all.


End file.
